23. Mario
23
MARIO
I t’s been three weeks since Matteo and Bella’s twins were born, and the silence is driving me insane. Even the Irish have gone dark—no threats from O’Connor, no cryptic messages from Siobhan. My sources are stumped by the sudden quiet.
I pace the safe house, muscles coiled tight with anticipation. Elena watches me from the couch where she reviews intelligence reports, one hand absently stroking her growing belly. The sight still hits me in ways I can’t quite name—this fierce, brilliant woman carrying new life while helping me navigate a war.
My phone buzzes—Sofia’s name lighting up the screen. The message makes my blood run cold: Anthony has my brother. Meeting at the old St. Patrick’s church in one hour or Marco dies. Come alone.
“No.” My voice cuts through the quiet room. “It’s obviously a trap.”
“Marco helped us escape Anthony at my office,” Elena says, already reaching for her coat after she quickly scanned the text. “He’s given us intelligence, protection, support. We can’t just?—”
“ We aren’t doing anything.” I move to block her path, panic clawing at my throat. Not her. Not again. “You’re staying here while I handle this.”
“Like hell I am.” Her blue eyes flash with that dangerous fire that first drew me to her—that perfect blend of calculation and courage. “Marco and Sofia risked everything to help us. I won’t abandon them now.”
“You’re four months pregnant!” The words come out harsher than intended, fear making my voice sharp.
“Which is exactly why Anthony won’t risk harming me.” She meets my gaze steadily, that brilliant mind already working through angles. “He wants his heir too badly. We can use that.”
I study her face—the determination in those blue eyes, the slight lift of her chin that means she’s already decided. My little planner, always three steps ahead, always willing to risk everything for what matters.
Giuseppe would call it weakness. This need to protect people who’ve helped us, this refusal to sacrifice pawns for tactical advantage.
But I’m not Giuseppe. And Elena isn’t some pawn to be sacrificed.
“Fine,” I growl, already calculating exit routes and backup plans. “But we do this my way.”
The smile she gives me is pure danger—a reminder that she’s as dangerous as anyone. God help me, but I love her for it.
Even if she’s probably going to get us both killed.
The abandoned church looms like a gothic nightmare against Manhattan’s skyline. Crumbling gargoyles peer down from weathered stone, their grotesque faces casting monstrous shadows in the streetlights. The rose window above the entrance is broken, jagged glass teeth catching moonlight like an open wound.
Through surveillance cameras, I watch Elena approach those massive wooden doors. Her black dress can’t hide her growing belly, but she moves with that purposeful elegance that’s become second nature. Even now, walking into danger, she maintains the image we’ve crafted—the ambitious society planner caught between powerful men.
She plays her role perfectly as she enters the church. That precise mix of fear and defiance as she surveys the space, one hand resting protectively over our child—Anthony’s child, I correct myself bitterly. Every gesture calculated to draw attention exactly where she wants it.
Then Anthony emerges from the shadows like a demon from hell, and my blood runs cold.
“Such a clever little thing,” he muses, circling Elena like a shark scenting blood. Marco kneels nearby, his face a mess of bruises and dried blood. His left eye is swollen shut, but his good eye meets mine through the camera with steady determination. Two of Anthony’s men hold guns to his head with practiced ease.
“Playing both sides so beautifully,” Anthony continues. “But did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”
More of his men materialize from the darkness between stone pillars, their weapons glinting in the dim light filtering through broken stained glass. “Did you enjoy it?” Anthony asks Elena. “Using my bed to steal our secrets? Carrying my child while plotting with the DeLuca bastard?”
“Actually,” Elena says with deadly calm that makes my chest tight with pride and terror, “I did enjoy it. Every moment I spent gathering evidence of your trafficking operation. Every piece of intelligence I fed to Mario. Watching you think you were so clever while I dismantled everything piece by piece.”
Anthony’s hand flashes out, catching her chin. Every muscle in my body screams to move, to tear him apart for daring to touch her. “Careful, cara . You seem to have forgotten who holds the power here.”
“No.” Elena’s smile is cruel. “ You have.”
Sofia appears from behind an ornate confessional, her gun trained on Anthony’s head with rock-steady aim. “Let my brother go,” she says pleasantly, as if discussing the weather, “or I paint these lovely stained glass windows with your brains.”
My finger tightens on my own trigger as I watch through my scope. One signal from Elena, and this becomes a bloodbath.
But Anthony just laughs—a cruel sound that makes the hairs on my neck rise. It’s the same laugh Johnny used before destroying things he considered his property. “Did you really think I’d come without insurance?”
He pulls out his phone, showing them a video feed. “That’s your father’s house, isn’t it Sofia? Such a shame about the gas leak they haven’t discovered yet. One phone call and?—”
The explosion of stained glass sends rainbow shards raining down as my team breaches through the windows. Fury ignites through my veins at his threat to Marco and Sofia’s father. I move with the lethal precision Giuseppe beat into me, each movement calculated for maximum damage.
The first man goes down before he can raise his weapon—my elbow crushing his windpipe as I use his body as a shield. Two more rush me with knives, but years of training make their movements seem slow. I redirect one blade into his partner’s chest while snapping the other’s knee with a precise kick.
The crack of bone echoes off stone walls.
A fourth man gets his gun up, but I’m already inside his reach. My ceramic blade finds the soft spot beneath his jaw as I spin past, my other hand relieving him of his weapon. Three shots take down the men trying to flank me—center mass, just like Giuseppe taught us. No wasted movement, no hesitation.
I find Elena backed against the altar, one hand protective over our child—no, Anthony’s child—while she holds a gun on her former lover with rock-steady aim. My little planner, dangerous to the end.
“Touch her again,” I say quietly as I approach, letting that deadly DeLuca tone fill the space, “and there won’t be enough left of you to bury.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Anthony spits blood onto consecrated ground. “She’s carrying my heir. My blood. You really think I’ll let a bastard son raise my child? That I’ll let my child grow up with Giuseppe DeLuca’s reject?”
The words hit their mark—I feel that old rage rising, that need to prove myself more than my father’s cast-off son. But then Elena’s hand finds mine, her touch anchoring me to the present.
“The baby is not your child,” Elena says softly. “This child is mine. And they’ll never know you existed.”
Rage twists Anthony’s handsome features into something monstrous. What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion.
I catch the slight shift of his weight, the telltale movement toward his jacket. My body moves on instinct, tackling Elena behind a carved wooden pew as steel glints in candlelight. The thunder of gunfire echoes off sacred walls, making angels weep from their perches above.
Sofia’s aim proves true—two rounds tearing through Anthony’s shoulder in a spray of red that stains his perfect suit. The impact spins him like a dancer, his own shot going wide to shatter the last intact window.
“Rather poetic,” Sofia muses as Anthony crumples, her gun still trained on him. “The mighty Calabrese heir, bleeding out in a house of God.”
But Anthony advances like a specter—rolling behind a pew as more of his security team pours in through the side doors. The sacred space erupts in chaos, bullets splintering wood and shattering what remains of the stained glass. Colored shards rain down like deadly jewels as gunfire echoes off stone walls.
“You really think I came alone?” Anthony’s laugh carries over the mayhem as I shove Elena behind a stone pillar, my body covering hers. “My family built this power while you were playing dress-up with society wives, Elena. Did you forget who taught you about contingency plans?”
An explosion rocks the church’s foundation, the blast making my teeth rattle. Through the thickening smoke, I watch Sofia dragging her injured brother toward cover. Marco leaves a trail of blood across hardwood floors as Anthony’s men advance from multiple directions, their movements precise and coordinated.
My mind races through scenarios, calculating odds and exits. We’re outnumbered, but I’ve survived worse. Giuseppe made sure of that, drilling tactics into us until they became instinct.
“This isn’t over,” Anthony calls out, his voice carrying that deadly calm that reminds me too much of his uncle Johnny. “You’ve just ensured I’ll take everything from you piece by piece. Starting with our child.”
The threat makes something primitive rise in my chest—pure rage mixing with a protectiveness I’ve never felt before. Elena presses against me, one hand on her stomach where Anthony’s child grows.
But in this moment, watching her face set with determination even as death closes in, I know the truth.
This baby is ours. And I’ll die before I let Anthony Calabrese near either of them.
Through the smoke, I count at least fifteen of his men moving into position. We’re surrounded, outgunned, with nowhere left to run.
Time to remind them why the DeLuca name used to make men tremble.
I return fire, each shot finding its mark with the precision Giuseppe drilled into us. Two of Anthony’s men drop before they can reach new cover, my bullets catching them in the soft spots their tactical gear doesn’t protect. But more keep coming, pushing us back toward the altar with coordinated precision.
I feel Elena behind me, her breath steady despite the chaos. One hand holds her gun with practiced ease while the other shields her stomach. The sight makes something primal rise in my chest—a need to protect that burns hotter than any rage Giuseppe ever beat into me.
“When I find you again,” Anthony promises as he backs toward an exit, blood staining his body but his composure never wavering, “and I will find you—you’re going to find out what happens to people who betray the Calabrese name. Ask your friend Bella what happens when someone crosses me. Ask her about her father’s last moments.”
I feel Elena flinch against my back. But there’s no time to process the implications as the church’s rear wall explodes inward, showering us with centuries-old stone and mortar. Anthony’s extraction team moves with military precision, covering his retreat with synchronized efficiency.
The last thing we see through the thickening smoke is his smile—cold and promising, exactly like Johnny’s. A reminder that this isn’t over.
Later, back at the safe house in the safety of our bedroom, my hands shake as I check Elena for injuries, needing the physical reassurance that she’s truly unharmed. The confrontation with Anthony left us both raw, emotions too close to the surface. Every shadow of a bruise, every slight wince as she moves, sends rage coursing through me.
“I’m fine,” she insists, but lets me continue my inspection, removing her clothes piece by piece until she’s only in her underwear. Her own fingers trace the cuts on my face from the exploding stained glass, her touch gentle despite the tremor I pretend not to notice.
The adrenaline crash hits us both hard. Every near miss, every bullet that could have found its mark, every threat Anthony made—it all catches up at once. I pull her closer, needing to feel her heartbeat against mine, to know she’s really here. Safe. Alive.
Elena leans in, seeking my lips. It’s clear she needs this connection, this moment of feeling something other than guilt and fear. I hesitate for a moment, my eyes searching hers.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, my voice rough.
Elena’s answer is to pull me closer. The kiss is gentle at first, almost tentative. Then something shifts, and suddenly it’s all heat and urgency. Her touch erases Anthony’s threats, Matteo’s condemnation, every scar Giuseppe left on my soul. For these moments, nothing exists but us.
Her hand cups the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. My own hands explore the soft roundness of her body. Every touch, every sensation, pushes the horror of the day further away.
As we lose ourselves in each other, I feel a spark of warmth cutting through the cold dread that’s been consuming me.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue exploring hers with a hunger that leaves both of us breathless. My hands move lower, skimming over her waist, her hips, and she arches into me, craving more. Our breaths mingle, our movements frantic as we lose ourselves in each other.
My lips trail down her neck, nipping at her skin, and she moans in response. The sound is raw, needy, and it only spurs me on.
“Mario,” Elena gasps, tilting her head back to give me better access. “I want you.”
I pull back just enough to look at her, eyes dark with desire. “You sure?” I ask again, my voice husky.
“Yes,” she breathes, her voice trembling with need. “I want you, Mario. I need you.”
A wicked smile curves my lips, and I step back, my eyes never leaving hers. The air between us crackles with tension, with the promise of what’s to come.
I remove my own clothes until I’m just in my underwear, my cock straining against the resistance. I palm myself through the material and groan. The urge to take her right now is overwhelming.
“Turn around,” I murmur to her as I guide her towards the bed. “Do exactly what I say, Elena.”
For once, Elena obliges without argument. She turns and leans against the bed, her hands splayed against the mattress. The sight of her like this, willingly submitting to me, sends a jolt of desire straight to my dick.
My hands move over her shoulders, down the smooth expanse of her arms, my touch light, teasing. Her skin is so soft under my fingertips, and I can’t help but lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, my voice thick with desire. “I won’t let him take you,” I growl against her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. My hand finds her stomach, where our daughter grows strong despite everything. “Either of you.”
The words feel like a vow, like a prayer to a god I stopped believing in years ago. A promise I’m not sure I can keep, but one I’ll die trying to fulfill.
I press my body against hers, feeling the heat of her through our naked bodies. She shivers, and I can feel her pushing back against me, seeking more contact. My hands slide up her bare torso and I cup her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she moans softly, her back arching against me.
The sound of her moan, the feel of her in my hands, makes my cock throb with need. I grind my hips against her, letting her feel just how hard she’s made me. “Fuck, Elena,” I groan, my mouth hovering by her ear. “You’re driving me crazy.”
I run my hands over her curves, my touch becoming more possessive, more demanding. I turn her around to face me, my eyes locking onto hers, blazing with desire. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with need.
I slide my hand between her legs, pressing it against her pussy. She’s already wet, her arousal soaking through my hand, and the knowledge that she’s this turned on because of me sends a thrill through my veins. I rub my thumb over her clit, watching her face as her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting in a soft moan.
Her head falls back, a needy whimper escaping her lips, and I take that as my cue to slide one finger inside her. She gasps, her hips bucking against my hand, and I smirk, loving the way she responds to my touch. I add another finger, pumping in and out of her slowly, my thumb still working her clit.
“Mario,” she moans, her voice breathless, filled with desire. “Please…”
“Please what, Elena?” I ask, my fingers curling inside her, finding that spot that makes her cry out every time. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want…I want you,” she pants, her hips rocking against my hand. “I want to feel you inside me.”
Her words nearly undo me, but I hold onto my control, wanting to drag this out a little longer. I withdraw my fingers, bringing them to my lips, tasting her on my tongue. She watches me, her chest heaving, eyes dark with lust.
“That’s it, Elena,” I murmur, my thumb circling her clit with deliberate slowness. “Let me hear you. I want to know how much you like this.”
I move behind her again, pressing my body against her back, my hands sliding up to cup her breasts once more. I pinch her nipples between my fingers, rolling them gently, and she moans, her head falling back against my shoulder.
“You like that, don’t you?” I whisper, my voice low and rough. “You like being at my mercy, feeling my hands on you, my cock pressing against you.”
“Yes,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “I love it. I love the way you make me feel.”
I groan, my cock throbbing against her lower back, aching to be inside her. But I want to make this last, to push her to the edge and watch her fall apart before I take her. I turn her around again and push her down onto the mattress. I crawl on top of her, my mouth finding hers in a deep, hungry kiss.
I trail kisses down her neck, her chest, taking one nipple into my mouth, sucking gently. Her back arches off the bed, a keening moan slipping from her lips, and I move to the other nipple, giving it the same attention.
My hands roam over her body, exploring every curve, every inch of skin.
I move lower, kissing my way down her stomach, my hands gripping her hips. I spread her legs wide, settling between them, my mouth hovering over her core. I can see how wet she is, her arousal glistening in the moonlight, and I can’t resist teasing her just a little longer.
“Tell me what you want, Elena,” I murmur, my breath warm against her. “Do you want my mouth on you? Do you want to come on my tongue?”
“Yes,” she moans, her voice desperate. “Please, Mario. I need you.”
I grin, satisfied with her response, and finally lower my mouth to her. I start with a slow, deliberate lick, tasting her, savoring the way she moans, her hips lifting off the bed. I circle her clit with my tongue, flicking it gently, then harder, sucking it into my mouth. Her moans grow louder, more frantic, her body trembling beneath me.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” I murmur against her, my fingers sliding inside her once more, thrusting in time with the movements of my tongue. “I could do this all night, make you come over and over again on my tongue.”
Her hips buck, her moans turning into cries, and I know she’s close. I increase the pace, my fingers pumping harder, my tongue flicking faster over her clit. She’s writhing beneath me, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and then she’s coming, her body arching off the bed, a loud, needy moan tearing from her throat.
I don’t stop, drawing out her orgasm, loving the way she falls apart beneath me, the way she cries out my name. When she finally comes down, her body trembling, her breath shaky, I pull back, looking up at her. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure, her lips parted, and she looks absolutely wrecked.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, and I can’t help but smirk.
“I’m not done with you, Elena. Not even close,” I say, my voice low.
I’m so turned on, I can hardly think straight. Her taste is still on my lips, the memory of her coming undone beneath me seared into my mind. Her scent fills the air, mixed with the faint trace of sweat and sex, and it drives me wild. I sit back on my heels, staring down at Elena, her body sprawled across the bed.
Her chest rises and falls with each shaky breath, her eyes half lidded and heavy with desire. I know I should take a moment to breathe, but I can’t help it. I want her again.
I lean down, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on my tongue before my hand slips in between her legs again, finding her still wet and ready. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them against that spot that makes her whimper.
“You’re so wet,” I murmur against her lips, thrusting my fingers in and out, my thumb brushing her clit. “You love this, don’t you?”
She moans, her hips rocking against my hand, her breath coming in short, needy gasps. “Mario…please…”
I release her clit, my hand moving to her hip, flipping her over onto her stomach. I pull her up onto her knees, spreading her legs. I slide my hands over her ass, gripping it, kneading it, before bringing one hand down in a sharp smack. She gasps, her head jerking up, and I do it again, loving the red mark that blooms on her skin.
I kiss my way down her back, my hands roaming over her body, teasing her nipples, stroking her thighs. I can feel her trembling under my touch, her breath hitching with each caress as I press my body against hers, my cock sliding between her legs, brushing against her wetness.
“You feel that?” I growl in her ear. “That’s what you do to me. You make me so hard, Elena. I can’t wait to be inside you.”
I slide inside her in one smooth thrust, filling her completely. She cries out, her body arching, and I hold her there, buried deep, savoring the way she feels around me. I start to move, slow at first, then harder, faster, my hand gripping her hip, pulling her back against me.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I groan, my hips slamming into hers, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room. “You were made for this, Elena. Made to take my cock. You’re so fucking perfect.”
Her moans are loud, desperate, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through me. I tighten my grip on her, loving the way she gasps for breath, her body clenching around me. I reach down, finding her clit, rubbing it in time with my thrusts. Her moans turn into cries, her body shaking, and I know she’s close.
“Come for me, Elena,” I command, my voice harsh, demanding. “Come on my cock.”
She lets out a scream, her body tensing, her muscles clenching around me as she comes. The sight, the sound, the feel of her falling apart under me is too much, and I let myself go, thrusting into her hard, chasing my own release. I come with a groan, holding her still as I empty myself inside her.
We collapse onto the bed, both of us breathing heavily, her body still trembling beneath me. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close. Even though we’re both damp with sweat, I hold her tightly, feeling her snuggle into me. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, no one else I’d rather be with.
My hand returns to her stomach. The gesture feels different now—less protective and more defiant. A challenge to fate, to family, to everyone who says I don’t deserve this. Her fingers intertwine with mine over the slight swell of her belly, anchoring me to this moment.
“What now?” she asks softly. Even exhausted, her mind never stops working—always three steps ahead, always calculating angles. Anthony’s threats echo between us.
“Now we fight smarter,” I say grimly, pulling her closer until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. “We find his weaknesses before he finds ours.” I kiss her with an edge of violence, tasting her desperation and matching it with my own. “And we make him regret ever threatening what’s mine.”
The words hang in the air between us—a declaration of war, a promise of protection, a confession I still can’t quite voice.
Because this fierce, brilliant woman and the child she carries are mine, regardless of blood or circumstance. And I’ll burn the world to keep them safe.
Giuseppe always said love was weakness. That it would get me killed faster than any bullet.
Looking at Elena now, I finally understand—he was wrong about that too.
Love isn’t weakness. It’s armor. It’s a weapon. It’s everything I never knew I needed until she crashed into my life with her perfect masks and calculating mind.
And I’ll be damned if I let Anthony Calabrese take it from me.